


Too Close

by RacheTanz



Category: Sam & Max
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, a shocking amount of introspection for Max, and they dont know how to address that, basically these two need to just talk it out but ofc they will never, basically theyre both v gay and too cowardly to say anything, by gays for gays, i hc the ttg takes place before the cartoon, sidenote-chose not to use warnings bc none rly apply-this is p much entirely safe, takes place between season 3 and the cartoon, theyre not quite dating but theyre starting to realize this is more than friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheTanz/pseuds/RacheTanz
Summary: Coming to terms with how much you care about someone can be a little... difficult. Especially if you start to realize that you care about them in a way you're pretty sure they wouldn't understand.It definitely doesn't help if you realize this because they technically died, and now you're living with a near-identical version of them from a parallel reality, but that's not too important. They could nearly forget about that, if it weren't for the heart-wrenching nightmares.Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, Max tries to comfort him. It gets a little awkward when he makes a couple mistakes but for now, his secret is safe.Tl;DR: Swing and a miss--how long can two idiots live together without admitting they love each other?A lot longer than you'd think.





	Too Close

**Author's Note:**

> ive not uploaded anythin here before so sorry if the formatting is bad, im still gettin the hang of it  
> also ive not written for these two much before so sorry if anything's ooc !  
> also warning for slight death mention--this references the end of season 3.

Sam sits up with a jolt, sweating profusely and a little bit disoriented. Impulsively he chucks the covers off himself, swinging his feet over the edge of his bed and taking deep breaths, holding his head in his shaking hands. It’s the same nightmare as always, but for one reason or another, it hits particularly hard tonight, bringing tears to his eyes despite his best efforts. Something awful in the back of his mind just keeps screaming “He’s dead, he’s dead, you couldn’t save him, and now you’ll never see him again,” over and over, and it’s driving him up the wall; he rubs at his face, trying to shake it off and calm down again. He hasn’t cried since he was a kid—this is absurd, he shouldn’t be _this_ bothered by some _stupid_ nightmare, what is he, a frightened _baby_?

Berating himself doesn’t help, of course, but he does it anyways, even muttering curses under his breath in an attempt to drown out the absolute chaos in his head.

He shouldn’t really be surprised when he hears movement in the bunk above him, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a surprisingly-quiet little whisper, “Sam?” Before he can even turn to look, there’s a light thump and Max is standing beside his bed, looking uncharacteristically concerned. Sam can’t think of anything to say, still somewhat crying (much to his embarrassment), and without really thinking about it just sort of… stretches a hand out towards Max, not entirely sure he isn’t seeing a ghost. Max’s face twists from concern to confusion, and he takes a half-step toward his partner, sticking his head under Sam’s hand and nudging it; Sam flinches, having half-expected Max to vanish, to not be real after all, but then he relaxes, shaky but a bit less frightened. This is real. Max really _is_ here. “What’s the matter?”

Finally Sam finds his voice, but all he can muster up is a rasp. “Max.”

The rabbit steps a bit closer, standing right beside Sam now, almost eye-to-eye with him; he peers into the dog’s eyes like somehow that’ll tell him what’s going on, lifting a hand to poke Sam in the nose. Humor will alleviate the situation, right? “Did your brain finally fry, Sam? I told you wearing long pajamas in the summer is a **terrible** idea.” Without even hesitating, he climbs into Sam’s lap, only kicking him in the gut once, then awkwardly patting Sam on the head, like he’s not sure Sam would appreciate the gesture, but he can’t think of anything else to do. “Cheer up, big guy. I’m here.”

Sam impulsively wraps his arms around Max, engulfing him in a hug. Surprisingly, Max doesn’t protest in the slightest, not even when Sam cries on him a little. They wait it out, whatever ‘it’ even is, Sam pressing his head to Max’s chest; listening to his erratic heartbeat helps ground him in reality again, calming him down. Max gently pets him like he would a quadrupedal dog, and that, too, is oddly soothing for Sam. He could practically fall asleep again, but Max starts to fidget, and he relaxes his grip, sitting back up. “Sorry, little buddy,” he rubs at his eyes, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I don’t care,” Max replies, cheerful, swinging his feet aimlessly. “What got you so worked up, anyways?”

Sam goes quiet, glancing to one side. They haven’t ever spoken about it and he really doesn’t want to, either; after all, Max doesn’t seem quite as affected as him, and it would be really embarrassing for Sam to have to admit that he cares about his little buddy probably way more than Max can care about _anything_ except the concept of violence. “It’s nothin’.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Sam, I haven’t seen you cry since _high school,_ when that girl you liked told us your big wet nose looked like a—”

“Don’t remind me of that,” Sam interrupts with a growl, more embarrassed than before. He’d worked pretty hard to suppress that memory.

“Point is, it’s not **nothing** .” Max crosses his arms, sounding almost like he’s scolding Sam, which is unnerving to say the least. Now it’s Sam’s turn to fidget, wishing he could get away from Max, and, almost as if he can read Sam’s mind, Max leans in closer to Sam’s face, eyes narrowed, voice considerably darker. “What are you **hiding** , huh?”

“Cut it out, Max,” Sam frowns, leaning back uncomfortably. The lagomorph is not so easily swayed, however, and stares his partner down with those disquieting beady little shark eyes of his. A long silence passes and once Sam realizes Max isn’t about to back down—which itself is odd, considering his short attention span—he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He has no clue how to even **try** to broach the subject, so he instead decides to be as vague as he can, but it’s late and he hasn’t slept well and his mind is definitely not at its best. “Max, do you ever think about, uh… the fact that you had to kill me?”

Max blinks, looking stunned at first, then grinning. “Well, of course, Sam. But I try not to. Makes me feel all _weird_ to think about it when you’re right next to me. Why?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, not sure how to continue. Max is as nonchalant as ever, of course—why wouldn’t he be?—and something about that… hurts. But he doesn’t really want to admit that. Max would laugh at him, for sure, and that’s the only mockery that’s ever really stung. “Just curious, I guess.” He offers a weak smile. “We should go back to sleep. It must be something like four in the morning.”

By contrast, Max’s expression sobers immensely and he stops swinging his legs, twisting a bit to face Sam with an almost surprised stare. “Is _that_ what you’re worked up over?”

Sam winces, regretting ever having brought it up. If he had his suspicions before, now it’s certain—he’s being a weenie about this. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he blurts, then bites his lip. If he hadn’t made it obvious before then it _definitely_ was now, and he waits anxiously for Max to laugh at him.

But he doesn’t. There’s a long pause, wherein Max starts swinging his feet again, looking down. If Sam didn’t know any better he’d daresay Max was having some sort of an introspective moment, and he’s tired enough that he’s half-tempted to nudge his partner off his lap and ask that Max try to use his brain from the comfort of his own bunk. Just as he opens his mouth to voice that, though, Max pipes up. “I wouldn’t think it’d bother you so much.”

Sam furrows his brow, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Max turns his head, not staring at the ground anymore, and flashes a grin, shrugging with one hand raised, the other still on Sam’s leg. “Well, you know, with an afternoon, a paper bag, and some craft supplies, you could make a Max-puppet, and it’d be just the same!” He answers in a cheery tone. His smile falters a little as Sam gives him a shocked stare, mouth half-open.

The only thing Sam can manage is a quiet, heartfelt, “Max, **no** .” He lifts a hand to rest it on his partner’s head like he always does, completely baffled; he had no idea Max felt that way, at all. “You’re not **replaceable** , I—” He bites his tongue, stopping himself from saying something impulsive that he can’t take back— “you’re… my **best friend**.”

There’s a tense moment where Max just stares at Sam, feeling an unpleasant medley of confusion, shock, and… something more amicable, but unnameable to him. He shakes it off, as best he can, with a grin. “Jeez, Sam, I was just _kidding_ ,” Max lies, laughing uncomfortably and looking away. “You don’t have to make it all **serious**.”

Sam lets go of his head, embarrassed again. “Sorry. I’m just sleep-deprived.” He mutters, silently cursing himself. This isn’t like him. None of this is like either of them.

“I think sleeping would help,” Max declares, and Sam refrains from pointing out how that’s the obvious solution, too busy being relieved by not having to talk about this anymore; the rabbity thing hops off Sam’s lap and onto the bed, standing next to him. “In the morning it’ll all seem like just another fever dream! And we’ll have more exciting things to do!”

“Right,” Sam nods, moving to lie back down. He pauses when Max doesn’t hop off his bed, and gives his partner a puzzled look, unsure what the lagomorph is going to do until Max springs over him to flop down beside him. “...Aren’t you… going to go back to your own bunk?”

“Too lazy,” Max replies, seeming only marginally sincere. “You gonna pull the covers up or what?”

Sam shakes his head, a smile creeping across his face as he obliges. “You crack me up, little buddy.” For a moment he considers rolling over so as to not be face-to-face with Max, but 1) he likes sleeping on his right side and 2) Max has already shut his eyes, seeming not to care, wedged between his partner and the wall. Sam just closes his eyes and tries not to think about it too much. Especially not about the fact that he has to restrain the impulse to throw an arm over Max (which ends up happening anyways once he falls asleep) and pull him closer. Must just be a holdover from his nightmare, he reasons.

It’s not long before they’re both snoring away, shifting in their sleep as if magnetically drawn to each other, with Sam ending up resting his head on Max’s torso, one of the lagomorph’s legs pinned under his arm and the other on his shoulder. Max wakes only a few hours later, a little disoriented to not see the ceiling above him until he registers the weight on his chest and leg. He glances down, then smirks, a little amused. Cautiously he reaches out with his free hand, resting it on Sam’s head, watching him for a moment to make sure it wouldn’t wake him up; he snores on, and Max starts to gently pet him, again like he would a common dog. Though Sam would never deign to admit it, it felt nice, and the rabbit knew it helped calm him down, even if he’d usually outright refuse it. He sighs in his sleep and Max grins, tilting his head back again to stare at the bunk above him for a while, thinking carefully, which was a rare occurrence. _Was_. Lately he’s been having to do it more often.

His partner waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t a weird thing—it had been happening ever since they moved into their new house, so it couldn’t be that unusual, right?—but _crying_ was new. Sam **hated** crying, he always had. (Max guessed it was because of his big nose or something.) The rusty and rarely-used gears in his head turn as he mulls over what happened earlier, slowly putting the puzzle pieces together. He’d always just assumed Sam wasn’t bothered too much about his death; even though he knew, deep down, that having to kill Sam had really, really hurt, he’d just sort of…decided that Sam didn’t feel that way when Max died, maybe because he’s been spending so much time pretending _he_ didn’t feel anything. The idea of his partner having nightmares about it and even crying over him is unsettling. No wonder he’d looked like he’d seen a ghost for a moment there.

Max wouldn’t ever admit it, but thinking about the fact that his partner had died _did_ freak him out. A lot. And he’d never told Sam too specifically about how far he’d gone in his reality just to try and save him—the bridges he’d burned (literally _and_ metaphorically), the people he’d hurt (often more than once)—and had just… glossed over it as if it were his usual violent shenanigans, because dwelling on it made his ribcage pinch up all funny in that way he hates. It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe _both_ of them had done things they weren’t too proud of, crossed boundaries they’d never considered even approaching before, and come away from it more than a little shaken. It piqued his curiosity but he knew Sam didn’t like to talk about it—and he could empathize, on that front. Max didn’t really want to talk about it either, because it would ultimately lead to talking about their _feelings_ , and he hated that. He hated even _thinking_ about talking about his feelings, probably because he knew he’d have to admit some things that could maybe jeopardize their partnership. The mere chance of ruining everything was enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

Truth was, Max had almost always valued Sam on nearly the same level as violence, junk food, and schlock TV—maybe even a little bit above them, considering going without the others didn’t make him feel like he’d rather be dead. Well, alright, maybe going without _violence_ for a long while would make him feel that way, but when Sam had gone missing the first time the feeling was almost instant, and the second time it was _worse_ . He’d always assumed that that hadn’t happened to Sam—after all, Max considered himself the more emotional of the two, for the most part—but now he wasn’t so sure. The way Sam had stared at him, almost horrified, when he suggested he was easily replaced, his tone and what he’d said right after, weren’t what he was expecting. He’d hoped Sam would just say “You crack me up, little buddy,” like he always did, but he hadn’t thought it was funny and Max really isn’t sure what that meant. Now he just feels kinda bad, and more than a little… frightened. He’d put too much truth into the joke and now, having been shut down so immensely, he feels overexposed, like he’d moved to rip off a band-aid and it somehow ended up tearing off enough hair and skin that he needed _another,_ bigger band-aid. It burns. The more he thinks about it the worse he feels, and the more he starts to worry if maybe things have changed too much. Would Sam have laughed at that joke, before he died? Will he ever laugh at a joke like that again? What did that mean for them, anyways? None of these questions are ones he wants answered. Well, maybe that last one, but not the other two. And he’d rather die than physically ask _any_ of them.

The lagomorph is, as they say, in too deep. He has been for a long time, even if he wasn’t always aware of it, and he’s only sunk deeper after since nearly losing Sam… twice. They were both more torn-up over it than either would admit (Sam more obviously-so) and for Max, moments like these really brought the pain home again. He’d never be able to forget the two weeks where he’d thought he’d never get to see Sam like this again, staring up at the stormy sky with too many questions rattling around in his worried head and no answers to be found. It’s bittersweet to hear his snoring again. It hurts to see his partner waking up in the middle of the night in tears, but what is he supposed to do? How could he possibly help? He couldn’t even save Sam when violence was an option he could employ; he can’t fistfight _this_. And that frightens him deeply. Some part of him feels like maybe he’s losing Sam all over again, only more slowly and painfully than before. The vision of a life without his partner is a bleak one, one he literally tore through reality to avoid. But what if that wasn’t enough? What if everything is different forever, and he can’t fix it? What if things fall apart and he’s forced to watch helplessly, again? He shivers at the thought. A life without Sam is one he’d rather not live, and he knows exactly why.

Impulsively he mumbles, “I really love you, Sam.”

It takes him a minute to realize Sam isn’t snoring anymore, and then, abruptly, he feels the impulse to fling himself out of the bedroom window. He slams his eyes shut and does his best to pretend he was just sleep-talking but before he can begin babbling incoherently the way he assumes a sleep-talker would, Sam lifts his head, and he knows he’s done-for. He cracks an eye open to see his partner staring down at him with an expression best described as some form of hopeful bewilderment. “... Max?”

Max doesn’t answer, mouth clamped shut, terrified in a way he hasn’t been before. Probably because he knows this, also, isn’t a problem he can punch away, not something he can shoot or bite or just generally intimidate, and he doesn’t know how to solve problems that don’t involve violence—or, at least, can’t be twisted around to be solved with violence. He tries to just pretend nothing happened, but of course, Sam isn’t so easily deterred, and opts to poke Max right in the eye. “Hey. Did you say something?”

He swats the large paw away from his face, rubbing at the offended eye. “Uh, n-no. You were imagining things, Sam. Whatever I said I definitely _wouldn’t_ say.”

Sam’s eyes narrow for a second but then he shrugs as best he can while still lying down, mumbles out an “okay” that Max would daresay is almost some kind of _disappointed_ , and shifts to not be lying on Max anymore, laying down beside him instead. The lagomorph has to restrain himself from grumbling at that, more than a little displeased at not being able to leech off Sam’s warmth like this… and not being able to pet him anymore. The dog settles down again with a little sigh, shutting his eyes. Max just stares at the bunk above him, heart still racing, even as his partner starts to snore again.

That was close. Way too close.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this !  
> im personally kinda 'eh' about the ending but i didnt want this to evolve into a novella so i stopped myself--  
> pls feel free to leave crit in the comments, again im not super familiar w writing for these two


End file.
